


physical.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Don’t look at me, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I’m A Trash Can Not A Trash Can’t, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation in Bathroom, No Beta We Die Like Ascians, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: The physical act was nothing to be ashamed of, Raha knew that much—but the fact he’d reverted to thinking of her, of all things…He had lied about worse to her. It would be an easy thing, to conceal something so trivial from her.So he thought.Raha takes matters into his own hands for the first time in three hundred years. Naturally, he’s terrible at keeping secrets. No plot, just smut/fluff, do not perceive me.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 21
Kudos: 216





	physical.

**Author's Note:**

> cw for mildly dubious consent due to alcohol

Sexual satisfaction had never been a priority for Raha. _Priority_ itself meant the matter was given some thought, and Raha hadn’t given the matter much consideration since he first woke into the blighted hellscape that was the Eighth Umbral Calamity. Even one hundred years on the First didn’t bring about such thoughts; his time was better put to other matters, and it felt beyond illicit to think of the Warrior in such a way. She was his friend, his inspiration, and while one could argue he had put her on a pedestal beyond what any could broach, he refused to consider her as anything more than amicable. For his self-imposed celibacy was the one thing keeping his mind from tearing asunder into shambles, and he had been a creature of simple motivations in the First. 

It was, only now, after everything, had he begun to consider his body as anything but a tool. 

“Your vitals look good, Raha,” Krile told him, her diminutive hand sliding down the papers she held, “one final matter—is, erm— pray forgive my indiscretion, old friend—everything _beneath_ the waist working as you remember?” 

Raha had blinked, levinstruck at the question. “Why yes,” he startled into laughter. “Why would you ask?” 

“Are you…” Krile cleared her throat. “Are you certain _everything_ is working?” 

Her sapphire eyes bore into his, eyebrows raising. She made an indiscriminate gesture towards him, clearing her throat and glancing away.

Oh.

_Oh._

Raha opened his mouth to answer, then closed it promptly upon realizing he had none. If she was asking him regarding _reproductive_ matters… he had not considered the matter at all in three hundred years.

He had _no idea_ if such things were functional. 

Krile shook her head. “Nevermind. Stupid question. I’ll see you at lunch?” 

He nodded numbly, a cold dread creeping up his limbs. 

_Wicked white._

How had such matters entirely _eluded_ him for three hundred years? Not once had he given it thought. He had been plagued with the odd inopportune erections, certainly, but thoughts of intimacy or physical pleasure… 

It felt alien. Like desires that belonged to a different species entirely, told to him through poorly translated manuscripts. 

And as if those parts of him, rumored defunct, sought to prove that they were, in fact, _fully_ functional, he had been able to think of _little else_ since his conversation with Krile. 

So, late that evening, Raha snuck away to the Rising Stones’ baths. They were deep, inset into the earth, the water delightfully warm. He poured an indulgent amount of bath oil into the bath, the jasmine and hibiscus scenting the air. He settled onto one of the ledges, the smooth stone beneath his skin, stretching the sore muscles of his legs. Each day had been filled with constant training, and he was getting stronger than he’d ever been.

He let his hand drift beneath the waters, giving himself a cursory touch—the warm water rendered him soft and lax, and no amount of manipulation seemed to change that.

How did one even… go _about_ such things? 

He remembered when he was younger, how his thoughts were constantly tormented by whatever figure in his life he’d fallen hopelessly in love with, all too often unapproachable professors or peers far above him—and the Warrior of Light, during their stint in Syrcus Trench, had been no exception to this rule. His desire to prove himself, to be witnessed, bled into his very sexuality. But such thoughts were quelled once he learned of her death, and he had never been able to see her quite the same way since. She deserved someone better, someone _stronger,_ and Raha had never considered himself worthy. 

But who _else_ would he think on? 

Perhaps an anonymous body; yes, that would do. Feminine, then. Naked on silken sheets, skin flushed with arousal. Beneath his still hand, he could feel himself beginning to stir. He chased that feeling, white-hot heat rushing to his loins. 

Soft skin under his hands, pliant, willing. The breathy song of his name— “ _Raha, please—“_ on her voice—her voice, dangerously close to that husky timbre to the Warrior’s, but no matter—

Sliding both his hands down her arched body, the swell of her hips, the soft columns of her thighs, parting her sex like rosepetals with both thumbs— he gave himself a tentative stroke, choking on a groan at just how _sensitive_ he was. 

How would her hands feel, tangled in his hair, stroking his ears, as he kissed her _there?_ How would she taste under her tongue? She who had surely suffered so much, if he could only ease her suffering an ilm, apologize for what he had done, with the only means left to him, desperation and his mouth and hands, driving her name out of him paroxysms of pleasure again and _again_ —

—No, he was thinking of the Warrior again.

And he couldn’t.

Well, he _shouldn’t._

And he certainly wouldn’t.

But… 

His cock was nearly erect at the mere whisper of her, and it was so, _so_ much easier to imagine _her_ beneath him in a bed—he could picture her heavy-lidded eyes, the wild toss of her hair splayed across pillows, lips curved in a scarlet bow.

He whispered her name under his breath, timing it with an upstroke. Tasting the syllables, testing how they sounded in such a context.

In a delicious frission of guilt and morbid curiosity, Raha worked the hard length of himself, angling his hips upward into his fist, tentatively pistoning into his hand, just to see how it felt. As if a lock had been sprung, a hundred filthy images poisoned his mind, each worst than the last, and he felt compelled to turn over every single one. 

Her, on her knees in the Ocular, gifting him with a sinister smirk before ducking beneath his robes—

Fucking into her from behind, her body crammed against the wall, his hand covering her mouth, shushing her into silence as he feverishly pounded into her—

His face buried in that pretty cunt of hers, heedless to anything but the sound of her breathy whines as he maps the innermost secrets of her body with teeth and tongue, ever her chronologer—

A bizarre, hare-brained indulgence; two of her, perfect mirrors of the other, and he with not nearly enough hands or mouths to please them, his mind fading into a blank overwhelm as they tug him down into the sheets— 

It is the vision closest to reality which brings him to the edge. Groaning with the effort, it is so, _so_ easy to envision her straddled atop him in the baths, all slow, sensual kissing and the slickened effortless slide of her around him. He works furiously, wrist cramping, closed lids fluttering as he strives closer. He’s almost _terrified_ to let himself finish, for if he felt this good now, this close to utter oblivion, what would happen if—? 

He tried to stop then, but every iota of his body fought against him, and instead he worked himself harder, the fat, heavy curve of his cock throbbing in his hand. He was right _there,_ and so was she, her panting little breaths so warm in his ear—

Raha tipped his head back, panting with the effort, tail thrashing beneath the waters, his vision blurry behind fluttering lashes, mind honed to a razor’s edge. He could barely hear, couldn’t _think,_ he found her name on his lips again, falling off his tongue like silk…

He tried to contain his groan, but he was so far beyond that; he arched fully back, bracing himself with a hand, coming with a mangled, broken cry as he pumped himself—he hovered there on the threshold of oblivion for how long he knew not, his body spasming and wrenching in the throes of utter pleasure. Warm, wet ropes of his come were strewn across his panting body, 

And then, it abated, and he collapsed into the warm waters, panting and flushed, hot shame creeping up him. 

He spent the rest of the bath scrubbing himself clean, striving to ignore the languor in his bones, the strange calm that had settled over him. The physical act was nothing to be ashamed of, Raha knew that much—but the fact he’d reverted to thinking of _her,_ of all things…

He had lied about worse to her. It would be an easy thing, to conceal something so trivial from her. 

So he thought. 

* * *

Raha’s bath had been, perhaps, _too_ good; tempting though it was, he found his hands staying decidedly above his waist unless absolutely necessary. There was a bone-deep, nonsensical fear that if he were to take his own pleasure again, he’d be unable to stop, so consumed with carnal desire and _need…_ he felt like he was suffering through a second pubescence, overrun by hormones and thoughts and wild, insufferable urges… 

He nearly found himself envying the icy solitude offered by the role of the Crystal Exarch, seemingly beyond such banal concerns. But the years of asceticism rendered him vulnerable to such matters. He felt scatter-brained and ill-at-ease, and godsdamned _so_ sensitive.

That night he had gone straight to his quarters—but the next morning he was faced with the Warrior—ever bright in the glow of morning, he shuddered unbidden when she leaned over to him over breakfast, her still-damp hair fanning over his shoulder in a quiet sussurus. 

“G’raha,” she purred, “pray tell, do you have any plans this evening?” 

His heart leapt into his throat, hammering wildly. Normally he could feign a cool composure around her, but the memory of last night was so near to the surface. “N-not at all,” he stammered. 

“We were planning something of a get-together,” Alisaie cut in, a rakish glint in her eye. “A little… stress relief, one might say.”

Krile muffled a laugh behind her hand. “Don’t let him get _too_ drunk now, Raha was notoriously—“

“—notoriously _foolish,_ ” Raha muttered under his breath. Like many other young students, in self-conscious fits of anxiety he would drag himself to the modest parties held among the Sons of Baldeison, and far too many times ended up sick in a chamberpot or flower vase. He felt queasy just thinking about it.

The Warrior’s eyes glimmered with good humor. “More than usual? I should like to see such a thing.” 

He looked up at her in helpless adoration. “I shall endeavor to _not_ let you see such a thing, but I will join you this evening, my friend.”

“If it isn’t too late for the old man,” Alisaie grinned.

Raha crossed his arms. “I’d daresay _you_ are hardly old enough to be partaking in such things.” 

Alisaie scoffed. “Well, am not fool enough to drink myself into a stupor. There is something to be said for mental maturity, after all.” 

He rolled his eyes, breaking his coffee biscuit in half, privately determining to himself to give Alisaie no more ammunition to taunt his foolishness or maturity. 

Such things proved to be aught but a distant dream.

Old habits die hard, even habits discontinued for hundreds of years. When he met the Scions’ that evening in the Rising Stones, dressed as casually as he dared in simple breeches and a thin, scarlet tunic, he found himself reaching again and again for the bottle of whiskey, downing it in quick, anxious bolts. 

The lamplight grew brighter, colors more intense, the world a swirl of nervousness and giddiness. But his anchor—the star he set his focus, as it ever had been—was _her._

She drank modestly from a glass of wine, hair recklessly loose and tossed back, laughing at her comrades—and when she drifted over to sit beside him, her arm casually draped over his shoulder, Raha could not help but gape at her.

Her brow furrowed. “What? Do I have something on my face?” 

“Er,” was the strangled noise that came out of his throat. _Oh gods._

Her frown twisted into a grin. “Oh dear. How much have you drank, G’raha?”

“Not enough, apparently.” He reached over the table for the whiskey bottle, tilting his head back to take two long pulls from it. He cleared his throat as the fire burned its way down to his belly. “Your beauty often takes me by surprise, and I no longer have the disguise of a hood to hide my gawking. Hence the staring.” 

It was _her_ turn to look embarrassed. She blushed prettily for him, and his heart throbbed with painful yearning. “Have a care with your words,” she murmured. “You have caught the eye of many a suitor with but a look.” 

His ears flicked up in surprise. “Suitors? Forgive my disbelief, but I have seen no such thing.” 

She gestured with a light hand to the sisters Aenor and Clemence, seated aside from Ocher and Hoary Boulder, an army of drinks settled between them. “I’ve heard your name come up _often_ between all four of them, with various intent. Former Scion Lyse Hext has heard tales of your chivalry and eagerly awaits meeting you, as does Aymeric de Borel, if a certain Lord Emmanellain is to be believed.”

“Twelve forfend,” he gaped. “Surely you jest.” 

She shook her head, running a finger around the rim of her glass. “Not in the slightest. You are possessed of a careless charm you yourself are ignorant of, G’raha.” 

He brushed his hair out of his eyes in a reckless sweep. “And do you find me charming?” he pressed on, spurned by clumsy, feckless love.

He was caught wholly off-guard when she rested her hand on his, a slow, easy smile gracing her features. “Perhaps,” she teased. “But fishing for compliments is hardly seductive.” She leaned back, lifting her knee to rest it against the edge of the table, the picture of careless, heroic repose. “When was the last time you had a suitor?”

She smothered a laugh behind her hand as he reached over her to steal a sip from her wine glass. “Truth be told there have been no suitors—as far as I have been aware.” 

“I invite you to tell me to reprimand me if this is too intrusive—but when is the last time you’ve… been with someone?”

“In… in what sense, do you mean?”

“Romantic or physical.”

“Romantic—many, many years. Physically…” his ears folded down to his skull, tail lashing beneath the table. “W-well, let it suffice that I have not had the time nor luck for such things.”

She raised her brows in surprise at him. “Never? Or do you simply have no interest?”

“Before Syrcus Tower, yes. There was… one _unfruitful_ instance. After, the Tower consumed every spare ilm of me, and such matters fell by the wayside in my mind.” He could feel his cheeks heating in a wash of hot embarrassment as she regarded him. 

“Define _unfruitful.”_

Raha waved his hand vaguely. “There was… there was a fumbling, unsuccessful attempt.” 

“So does that mean… you’ve never…?” the Warrior leaned close, eyes sparkling with curiosity. 

Raha ducked his head down to avoid her gaze. “I have never, no,” he grated out.

“I must admit, I find myself… _surprised._ I thought surely during your tenure as the Crystal Exarch—“ 

“There were… _offers,_ ” he sighed, sliding her wine glass over to his side once more and draining it to the dregs, “of such things, but I could not reveal my identity, and while some may be able to separate their romantic attachments to their physical attachments, I am not such a person. They are always interconnected in my heart.” 

“But,” she purred, “you are no longer the Exarch. Your heart is free to do as you wish. Even still, has no one caught your eye?” 

_You,_ he wants to confess, _it has always been, it has only ever been you._

“Perhaps,”he demurred instead. “And what about the esteemed Warrior of Light? If the rumors are to be believed, you have taken many, _many_ lucky lovers.” 

Her cackle was unfettered and charming in its bluntness. “If you believe that, I have a golden chocobo I would sell you. There have been some—but not for a while. Even if I have the inclination, the opportunities are limited.” 

“Ah.” Raha frowned. “My apologies.”

She waved her hand dismissively, clumsily pouring more wine into her glass. “Don’t be—your plight sounds much more dire than mine. No touch but your own for over a hundred years…” She let out a low whistle. “You must be near _starved_.” 

“I didn’t—nevermind,” Raha’s face burned as he took another drink of his whiskey. The Warrior’s eyes widened as she watched him. 

“You didn’t do _what_ , exactly?” 

“Uh,” he blurted, closed his mouth, shook his head hard in an attempt to clear it. No, no, _no_ , he was a fool, he would tell her _everything…_

“Raha.” She pressed. “Don’t leave me like this, I’ll die of curiosity.” 

“Since when are you so nosy?” he groaned, his head sinking into his hands. 

“Forgive me, it’s not every day you meet a three-hundred year old vir—“

He shoved a finger over her lips, ignoring the soft smile that spread beneath it. “Hush you. If you _must_ know, I had… little to no interest in the physical due to the Tower’s influence, and did not… well, as they say, _take matters into my own hands_ until recently.” 

Her eyes widened. “By the Twelve. And what did _that_ feel like?” 

He had the distinct feeling he was digging his own grave as he spoke. “Too good,” he admitted. “Far, far too good.” 

Her leg brushed against his under the table as she leaned closer. “And what did you think of?” 

And her hand curved over his thigh, a levinbolt streaking up to his groin. 

Raha realized then he felt like prey. 

“Secret for a secret,” he said instead. “Unless you are unwilling to give up such things.” 

She crossed her legs, a rakish grin spreading on her face. He wondered how drunk she was—if she was getting nearly as drunk as he felt. “That’s fair. Truthfully it depends—I have my own likes and dislikes, and if the fantasies themselves vary, the cast does not.” 

He wanted _desperately_ to ask, in a fit of morbid curiosity, who was so lucky to grace the roster of her fantasies, but he checked his tongue. “And what are your likes and dislikes?” 

“So nosy yourself!” She chided, but there was no bite to her tone. “How about this—this is not a subject I would have overhead by prying eavesdroppers. We could discuss such matters with... greater _liberty_ in private.” 

_Greater liberty._

_In private._

His heart rioted in his chest, that same anxiety threatening to overtake him again. In private, with her, discussing such _carnal_ matters… surely she knew that which she suggested? 

Was he aught but a fly caught in the web of her charms? 

He certainly felt as such—but he felt little inclination to struggle. 

No, he wanted, with every ilm of himself, to _surrender._

“If that is your desire,” Raha breathed, “I have no objections.”

A thousand conflicting feelings ran through him as she followed her to her quarters, ignoring the stares or murmurs of the other Scions—this was inappropriate, he had no business being so _intimate_ with her…

… and the undercurrent of fear beneath it all—

That she would find him wanting.

The intrinsic fear of rejection, the thread all through his life, even when he was a boy with two mismatched eyes. 

Her quarters were small and intimate, scarcely enough room for the two of them on the flagstone floors. The lamplight wrecked havoc on her features, casting a fire in her eyes that burned low and sweet. 

“Shall we make a game of this?” The Warrior suggested, holding up the half-finished whiskey bottle. “You can ask me anything you wish—but, if I digress, then I take a drink. And the same goes for you.”

His heart hammered wildly. “As you wish, Warrior.” 

“I’ll ask first.” She set the whiskey bottle between the two of them, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms over them. “How about something… easier, hmm? What is… a fantasy, you’d like to enact? If given the chance?” 

_Oh gods._ “Such a thing would fill an entire tome—and I have so little experience I scarcely know where to begin.”

“Well, how about something close to the top of the list? Which may not be so obvious.”

He tried hard not to think about his answer overly—not to watch the way her eyes widened, pupils liquid dark in the dim light, leaning forward at his every word in the unspoken epitome of hunger. But it was all a vain, futile attempt.

“There is a matter… I suppose the, ah, more _technical_ term for it is _cunnilingus.”_

“Pleasuring with your mouth.”

The tips of his ears burned. “There is an… an intimacy to it, which is compelling. Gratification in servitude. A carnal aspect—something to do with the psychology of oral fixation, no doubt. But I myself am far from immune to such things.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, lovely mouth parted in surprise. “You will make many a woman quite happy,” she breathed.

Raha blushed. “One can only hope. But it is your turn, is it not? Pray tell what is at the top of the Warrior of Light’s list of pleasures?”

“I’ve never… experienced what you described,” she said shyly, “and I share your affinity for it.”

No one had ever…? But why in the fourteen shards would no one do such a thing? 

A darker voice curled from within him. _You would be the first. You could be the first. You should be the first._

“Raha,” she commanded softly, “tell me about… what you did. With yourself.”

He considered reaching for the bottle. But the room spun pleasantly and he couldn’t say no to the sweet, pleading tone in her voice.

“I thought of what I described above,” he said slowly, “and I also… considered if _someone_ was in the bath with me—in my lap. That… that was more than enough.”

“Who?” She breathed.

And Raha grinned. “‘Tis your turn, Warrior.” A bolt of wild recklessness tales him. “Did you ever… consider the Crystal Exarch, in such a way?”

It was as close as he dared to asking if she had thought of him in her own private moments. He thought surely she would reach for the bottle, but instead he watched in shock as she slowly nodded.

“It crossed my mind,” she murmured, “a few times. You— _he_ had an allure, certainly. But he seemed too detached, to entertain such matters, and so they stayed strictly in my daydreams.”

He scoffed. “The old man would have had a heart attack, to hear such things.”

“My question, then. Who?”

Raha blushed furiously. “A-a comrade.”

“Y’shtola?”

“Heavens no. Not that she isn’t—well, you understand.”

“Thancred? Urianger? _Krile_?”

He stared at her helplessly, wondering if she was toying with him.

“I fear it is painfully obvious,” he groaned in exasperation.

She blinked in surprise. “Who, me—?” And at his dejected stare, she gasped. “Oh. _Oh.”_

“I felt terrible,” he found himself confessing, “for thinking of you, in such a way—with the weight of two worlds on my shoulders it was so easy to banish such thoughts before they could occur—but now…” he wrung his hands, “you… it is…”

“I’m flattered,” she soothed, gently, “you would think of me in such a way.”

“Warrior, the images my mind presented were _hardly_ flattering, do not—“

“It’s my turn,” she reminded.

“And so it is. Very well. Well… what… _qualities_ do you look for in a partner, then?”

He struggled to keep his voice nonchalant and disinterested, but the crack at the end gave him away, and he shuddered as he watched her tongue swipe at her lips in a slow, sensuous drag.

“Intelligence,” she murmured, “capability, kindness—someone just as excited and invested in the relationship as I am. Physically I find myself drawn to strong hands, lean arms, striking eyes—“ her sideline glance left him breathless, “—someone charming, loyal with good humor.”

“All admirable qualities,” Raha commended.

“I should think so, although the bill seems more difficult to fit than I warranted. My turn for the questioning, then. You said images, _plural_. I would hear of them.”

He nearly reached for the bottle then. But reckless bravery kept him talking, liquor loosening the leash on his tongue.

“I thought of you,” he whispered, almost afraid someone would overhear, “and I in the Ocular—bent over my desk, or you, on… on your _knees…_ ” he fell silent, heart hammering in his chest, “of pressing you against a wall during training and just… having my way, a-as it were—of taking my time with you in your bed, rendering you a begging mess—I warned you they were hopeless,” he sighed, threading his fingers in his hair. They caught on his hair clips and he reached up to undo them, startling when a soft, warm hand settled over his.

She was nearly nose to nose with him as she slid each clip from the tangle of his hair, holding them in her teeth as she worked. 

“Your turn for a question,” she told him as she worked, seemingly unphased. 

He could barely focus, hardly collect a coherent thought as her cool fingers threaded through his hair, the way his clips rested between the plush swell of her lips...

“When last you indulged in… such _erotic_ fantasies,” he found the very air thin and his breath impossible to catch, “Who was the subject of them?”

She brushed the fringe of his hair from his eyes. “Raha,” she smiled. How sweet those two syllables sounded on her lips. “Is it not obvious?”

“It is not a matter of obviousness or deception—I myself have never allowed myself to believe such a thing could possibly be true.”

She sat up on her knees, hooked her arms around his neck. She spoke rapidly, in a sultry, low tone. “I wanted you before—it was a hare brained fantasy in Syrcus Trench and a strange delusion when I first came to Norvrandt. I considered, time and time again, pursuing such a matter with you, but the Exarch was unapproachable to them extreme. I did not want to press such things with you, when you returned to the Source, but…” her fingers knotted in his braid, slipping the scarlet locks free with slow, deliberate movements. “I still want you,” her voice was a low whisper now, her nose skimming his, “and I would be honored, to be your first.”

It was too much, to have that which he had longed for, that which he had denied himself presented before him, and resist the temptation of the fruit before him. He was kissing her before the final syllable died on her lips, gasping with delight when a low groan purred from her throat, the warm tip of her tongue tracing his bottom lip.

She tasted like promises and warm whiskey, smelled of woodsmoke and gunpowder, dangerous and lovely and _her._ He gasped against her when she straddled his lap, falling backwards to sprawl on the flagstone, her hair an aromatic curtain veiling them from the world.

“I’m afraid—“ he mumbled against her lips. She worked her way down his jaw, stubble scratching against her cheek as she scattered a hundred messy kisses across his inflamed skin.

“What do you fear?” She whispered against the thrum of his pulse.

“I won’t… I won’t be satisfactory, I won’t last—“

“Raha.” The call of his name lulled him into a state of disarray. “This is as much for you—perhaps even more so—than it is for me.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” it was a broken, plaintive noise, “I _need_ you, all of you—“

“You have it,” she reassured him, “although that floor cannot be comfortable.” Her smile was sweet, and his heart swelled with affection so dear it was painful.

She pulled him onto the bed, sitting him on the edge as she stripped of his clothes. He shuddered as she rucked up his tunic, stared in a daze as she slipped off his boots, shirked down his breeches and smalls with slow, decisive movements.

And when he reached down to pull her up and into his arms she knelt down between his legs, resting each hand on his bare thighs. 

Succubi had looked less devilish before devouring their meals.

He had been hard from the moment she’d sat next to him, and his cock was nearly painful with need as she stroked him with both hands. He didn’t know what to do with his hands—should he brace himself, or touch her? He wrung them restlessly in his lap as she worked him—

—and then with a soft noise she took him into her mouth, and he found both hands burying themselves in the rich mess of her hair, a wild moan leaving him as she laved the underside of him with her tongue. _Oh_ , it was so delightfully warm, he could scarcely resist tilting his hips forward into her, his breathing ragged and loud in the quiet of her room. 

She had scarcely touched him and he could already feel his climax coiling low in his belly, the mere sight of her on her knees rendering him shaken and fevered; she took him an ilm deeper in her mouth and— oh _gods_ , she moaned around him, her fist tight around the base of him, he wasn’t going to last, he couldn’t— 

He hissed her name, pained and plaintive. “You… _ah_... I can’t…” he panted, “I can’t last—“

She came off him with an obscene smack, her lips swollen and wet. “Then don’t,” she chided, before bending back down, and he flung back his head with a barely restrained groan. 

She quickened her pace, her hair fanning across his thigh, and he could hardly resist pistoning into the wet heat of her mouth, and—

He came in sputters and starts, caught between wanting to close his eyes and surrender to the paroxysm of ecstasy and keeping his eyes fixed on the sight of her, on the sly smile curving around him, the way she hummed her contentment as she swallowed all of his spend. 

He was still gasping when she sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, looking every ilm the coeurl who stole the hen.

Raha reached for her blindly, bringing her up to pull her into him and laying back on the soft sheets.

“How was that?” She asked quietly. A thread of reservation in her tone.

He ran his hand through her hair, the quiet sounds of the Scions in the common area ringing down the hall. “Would that I could give you a tenth of what you gave me,” he whispered. “I have one last question for you, Warrior of Light.”

She craned her neck up to look at him. “And what is that?”

In one smooth, fluid movement, he pinned her to the mattress, delighting in the way her body felt small and vulnerable beneath his, how his hips settled so naturally between her thighs.

“What would you have me do to you?” He purred.

She grinned like hell itself, and told him _precisely_ that which she desired.

Later in the night—after he had wrung every last onze of pleasure from her, coaxed on by her gentle pleas and breathy sighs, his name on her lips as she hit crest after crest—she fell asleep in his arms, an unspoken command she didn’t want him to leave, she wanted him to stay—

—that he belonged, in a way, to _her._

Raha stared, transfixed at his arms wrapped around her, spoken flesh marred only by freckles and old scars, no trace of crystal on him. 

Perhaps in this rewritten future, he could serve as more than an avatar of fate. And perhaps, maybe—

He had been worthy all along of her. 

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively titled: virgin graha nuts for the first time in three hundred years, naut finally lets graha nut  
> don’t look at meeeeee  
> s2g I’m going back to fic/comms 5.4 just got me in the mood for scion graha loving


End file.
